


Fixed

by JackVelvet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Godstiel - Freeform, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:53:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21649351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackVelvet/pseuds/JackVelvet
Summary: When Sam takes notice of an unusual student in a bar near Stanford, he introduces himself with this question: “If you had the power to do anything, what would you do?” It turns out the answer isn’t as vague as it seems.[This fic was originally posted on LiveJournal sometime around the end of season 6 and before season 7.]
Relationships: Castiel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 92





	1. Millions Upon Millions

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Rirren from LiveJournal - I recently stumbled upon your post in spnstoryfinders from 2017 looking for this fic. I'm so touched that you remembered it so fondly after all those years. I hope my re-post has not come too late. - JV
> 
> * * *
> 
> Author's Note: You should enter into this fic knowing that it was originally written before season 7 (Leviathan) and posted on LiveJournal. It draws off canon up to a very late point in season 6. Consider it canon divergent. I'm sorry I don't know the publication date, but I created the original draft file on August 14, 2011.

**Millions Upon Millions**

Sam eats here all the time.

He tries to be good about it. No fake IDs here—he’s over and done with that now. He just wants a place far from the silence of his apartment where he can sit down and get food at a decent price. He knows himself; if he watches his own TV, he’ll notice the weather patterns, the connections between crimes, then suddenly find himself knee-deep in a job. At the bar? There’s always a game playing. Sure, sometimes there’s a news ticker at the bottom of the screen, but the content’s never localized enough to really see any patterns. Weather can just be weather, and a missing person can just be a missing person. So he gets way, comes here, has a burger or—gasp—a chicken sandwich or something even lighter than that.

Today he orders the chicken sandwich.

Some guy sits next to him. He doesn’t notice him much at first. He’s aware that he’s there and his subconscious has already correctly estimated his height and weight in case of an emergency description to the police (because he doesn’t do that sort of thing anymore), but other than that, he doesn’t pay attention to him much. He’s just another guy in the bar probably trying to get away from his...students? Roommates? Wife? Co-workers? Sam can’t figure which. There’s something unusually youthful about the man, yet something so old too. His body is somewhat aged—no, _stunted_ , Sam thinks for a brief moment—but not too old to be _old_. Sam’s just aware that he’s not in his generation, but could be in Dean’s. He still can’t shake this notion that the guy’s posture and his eyes have that wizened look to them. Or that he could be hiding something beneath that that long, dusty coat.

But other than that, Sam doesn’t pay attention to him.

A commercial flicks on that Sam’s seen a handful of times before. Some promo for some sci-fi TV show that starts with the same line: If you had the power to do anything, what would you do?

Sam takes a sip of his soda and scratches the hairs on the back of his neck. _Getting shaggy again,_ he thinks. He also wonders if Brady’s ever gonna call him back. It occurs to him that he’s pretty bored and kind of lonely.

_Could be worse,_ he reminds himself. _I could be loading a shotgun, getting ready to break into someone’s house right now._

“So,” Sam says to the man he’s hardly noticed, “if you had the power to do anything, what would you do?”

The man turns his head, his look dubious. “What do you mean?” he asks, the timbre of his voice gruff.

Sam shrugs and rests his elbows on the bar. “You know, if you had the power to do anything, what would you do with it? What would be the first thing you’d do?”

The man hesitates to answer.

Sam arches his brows, conceding to what he assumes the man thought. “Yeah, tough question.”

The man speaks again. “What would you do?”

Sam ponders the question for a moment. “I’d go back in time. Change things.”

“And what would you change?” the man asks, seeking a genuine answer.

Sam takes a sip of his soda. Condensation from the glass coats his fingers. _You have no idea._ “Family stuff.”

“Ah.”

“What would you do?”

“The same.”

Sam wipes the condensation on a napkin. “Funny how that works, right? It’s like, you get so mad or upset at the moment, and then when you look back at it, it’s all the fundamentals. I mean, I could get more money, but that would just be so that I could,” he shakes his head, “I dunno, start a legitimate savings account or something.”

“Legitimate?”

Sam smiles. “Yeah—I mean, you know, now that I’m on my own and at college.”

The man nods, begrudgingly accepting this information as truth. “I see.”

“So you’re uh...a student?”

“Yes.”

“What’re you studying?”

The man thinks for a moment. “Theology.”

Sam gives him a look of apprehension. “Theology? I didn’t know they had that here.”

The man’s eyes turn away, as if searching for a fact he can’t quite put his finger on. “Religious studies.”

“So, what are you doing, going for a doctorate or something? Do they even have that for uh, religion?”

“You seem wary of religion.”

“Actually, I pray every night.”

“That’s a good quality.”

“Well it’s not really about—” Sam stops, thinking maybe discussing religion with a guy studying religion might not be such a great idea. “Anyway, I just said that because you seem like you’ve been here for a while.”

“I appear old to you now.”

Sam thinks that sounds a bit odd. _Now_. As if there was a _then_ or will be a _soon_. “Not old, just older than me. What’re you, like...twenty...”

“Twenty-six.”

Sam wanted to tack on a “nine” at the end of that guess. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—” He blushes. There’s something somewhat awkward and, dare-he-think-it, adorable about this mysterious man. “Sam,” he says, holding out a hand.

The man reluctantly shakes his hand, and then takes another moment after that to produce a name. Sam wonders for a second if it’s going to be a fake.

_No,_ Sam thinks. There’s only a handful of excuses he can come up with for why someone would dole out a fake name: to get information, to escape from the past, or to keep the lay anonymous.

“Castiel,” the man finally says.

And Sam knows it’s the truth. He’s not sure if it’s because of those crystal-blue eyes mesmerizing him into believing it, or if it’s because he’s learned how to sort out things like that due to his life as...well, the one he left behind. The one that had him picking new names in his late teens, that taught him how to feign being the new kid delivering the papers or going door-to-door to “raise money for a school trip.”

“That Latin?” Sam asks.

“It is an ancient language,” Castiel answers.

It’s an unusual response, but Sam kind of likes it. Feeling like the black sheep of his family has him identifying with the guy, so he sits and eats with him at the bar until night falls.

* * *

It’s not long before Sam runs into Castiel again. Next day, in fact. It’s a passing glance between classes that darts from the sidewalk to the bench that Castiel chooses to stand next to, not sit on. The guy doesn’t look busy with his studies, and he doesn’t look like he’s waiting for anything either. He’s just standing there, his coat swaying in the breeze.

He’s the same way when Sam gets out of class; Castiel has barely moved an inch. This time Sam waves. Castiel waves back, a smile in his eyes but not on his lips. It’s a bit strange and ethereal, somewhat familiar. Sam stops just beneath a tree fifty yards from that bench when he realizes that no one else on the campus is in awe of the man.

_Am I seeing things?_

Sam turns around to see Castiel, just to make sure that he’s in fact there. He’s dealt with spirits before, so it’s quite possible that he’s the only one seeing this mysterious man with a Latin name. He breaths in relief when he sees Castiel sitting on the bench now, reading a book that Sam doesn’t remember him holding. A girl stops to ask if she can sit there—or so Sam presumes from her gestures and shy smiling. Castiel recognizes her, and shyly agrees, shifting away from her a bit to give her space despite the bench’s three-person capacity.

Sam wonders for a moment why he wondered why everyone else wasn’t in awe of Castiel. Something magnetic and powerful seems to radiate from him. Surely someone else would think the same thing.

A text from Brady prompts him out of his trance. He’s sees the time in the upper corner of his cell’s screen: it’s time to get to his next class.

* * *

Sam dreams of Castiel that night. It’s not one of those odd dreams where he wonders if all that shamanistic stuff is actually real (even though he knows it really is). It’s an ordinary dream. Castiel is there with him at the bar. Castiel waves to him from the bench he won’t sit on. Castiel is the president of the Dancing Bears Club, then suddenly Sam’s back at the school where he attended first grade, even though he’s the same age as he is now. No one else seems to notice this discrepancy. He’s thankful, because as Dean kindly notes from the desk behind him, he’s way taller than everyone now.

Sam chalks it up to a fear of failing out of school and having to return to the “family business.”

Still, Castiel made his way in there, which means he was thinking about him enough for him to make an impact.

* * *

There’s only one reason that Sam occasionally visits the cafeteria: the French fries. There’s something about them that are to die for. Not literally, but they’re damn good fries and it’s a damn good phrase for the fries.

Sam seeks out a place to sit once he pays for his fries. That’s when he sees Castiel; he’s eating a burger at a table alone, seemingly displeased at its quality.

Sam approaches. “Can I sit here?”

Castiel doesn’t exactly smile, but he doesn’t seem annoyed either. “I was hoping that you would.”

Sam’s chest leaps. He pauses before settling into the chair opposite Castiel. “How’s the burger?”

Castiel eyes his meal as if he were a Jedi about to perform the greatest feat of strength ever. Sam wonders if Castiel really believes that he can change the burger’s taste.

“I’ve had better,” Castiel says.

“That bar we were at the other night isn’t too bad.”

“There’s a better place. A diner in Sioux Falls.”

Sam shrugs. “Sioux Falls? Pretty far for lunch between classes.” He pops a fry into his mouth. They’re good without ketchup too. Sam reaches for a packet of sugar, because the fries, in fact, taste better with sugar on them. “That where you’re from?”

Castiel makes the same face he did when Sam asked him his name. “Where I’m from?”

“Yeah. You know, home.”

Castiel reluctantly nods. Sam thinks he sees a glimpse of home-sickness, a dent in this strong aura that he swears surrounds the man.

“I suppose it was once home.”

“So you weren’t born there,” Sam deduces.

“No, farther away.”

“Ah, East Coast?”

“Yes.”

Sam knows Castiel is lying. He just figures it’s a sore spot and moves on. “Why Stanford?”

Castiel takes a deep breath. “It’s complicated.”

Sam smiles. _I know complicated._ “Crazy family or a bad relationship?”

Castiel answers with a sharp, piercing stare that’s both dangerous and infantile. “Little of both.”

Sam can’t help but feel for the guy. “Well, this place is pretty good I guess.”

“It has its moments.”

Sam picks up another fry and holds it for a beat. Several beats. Castiel has eyes that he can’t get over, and it unnerves him. He might be a bit attracted to the guy. It’s not the foreign nature of it that is terrifying; it’s the sound of Dean’s voice judging him and then turning around and defending him from his father.

Though he can’t recall a time when his father really took a stance on the whole thing. There were too many “go to bed, do what Dean says, grab your gun, stay low, don’t make a sound, listen to me when I’m talking to you” conversations, but nothing real about attraction or marriage or all of that. He learned what he learned on the topic from TV, from the kids at school, from Dean.

Big brother Dean. The brother who introduced him to condoms by saying they were balloons with candy-flavoring added and then watched as Sam put one to his lips and tried to blow it up. The taste of lube and spermicide stayed on his tongue for days. Dean’s joshing stayed in his mind longer.

“ _That could’ve been poisonous!” Sam had said, spitting into the bathroom sink._

“ _Trust me. It’s_ not _poisonous,” Dean assured him._

“ _How do you know?”_

_Dean snickered. “Ask Jill Carter.”_

Castiel says his name. “Sam.”

It bothers Sam how the sound of Castiel’s voice seems to transcend time.

He wonders if that’s what love feels like, when things get so confusing that you start thinking wildly crazy things about the origins of the person you’re infatuated with. The hunter in him tells him to be careful, to determine Castiel’s motives, to figure out whether or not Castiel is a theology major or a warlock with some sort of charm spell. He settles somewhere in the middle: Castiel may be strange, and hey, he might be supernatural to some extent, but nothing about Castiel screams “Mesmer.”

Castiel says his name again.

Sam blushes and apologizes. “Sorry, got thinking about a paper.”

Then, Sam catches it. Another fine crack.

Unfortunately, it leads Sam to think that he’s done something horribly offensive.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Castiel mutters, standing from the table, leaving his tray—and Sam—behind.

* * *

Sam sees Castiel the following Monday, standing next to that same bench again. Sam watches him a bit before approaching him, curious about the man’s habits and his friends and his class schedule. But Castiel seems like he’s been waiting there for days. The clothing beneath his coat’s changed—hasn’t it? Sam figures he’s a pretty bad hunter if he’s just now realizing that Castiel may have been wearing the same thing every day.

Even if it is just a result of wearing similar suits and ties, Sam thinks it’s odd for a student to wear suits. Then again, he thinks about theology students, and the stereotype that they’re all good church-goers ( _They’d have to be,_ he thinks) in suits all the time, with one of those perfect families and all that.

Castiel’s vague answer about home hits him. Maybe that’s where he came from, or maybe he abandoned something with much less structure—like the exact opposite of the stereotype—to get to this life of proper suits and ties and proper theology classes.

He wonders where flirting with a man fits into Castiel’s religion.

It occurs to Sam that this is the first time he’s really admitted to himself that they were flirting. Even if it wasn’t the typical, pick-up line version he’d often seen Dean engage in, it was flirting. _Well, except for when he stormed off._

Sam approaches Castiel swiftly and sits down. “Hey.”

Castiel isn’t surprised. He sits. “Hello, Sam.”

Sam feels a short in his brain. Like reverse déjà vu. It’s the cadence of Castiel’s voice and the way he speaks to him as if he’s said his name many times before they’ve even met.

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry,” Sam begins. “I don’t know what I did, but I’m willing to find out, and I just wanted you to know that I wouldn’t do anything to intentionally upset you.”

“I know.”

_But how could you?_ Sam can’t reason with the thought. “Anyway, I was thinking that to make it up to you, I could help with any papers you’ve got coming up, or—”

Castiel fixates on him. “Because you’re good at research.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Sam smiles. He chalks the whole thing up to a moment of chemistry. “I mean, I looked up your name to figure out what it means—” He pauses, biting his tongue to withhold from cursing. He’s certain he just pulled a total creeper move.

“And what did you find?”

Sam releases the breath in his chest. “Well, you’re the angel of Thursday, actually.”

“I’m not an angel.”

Sam corrects himself quickly. “Eer well, yeah, I know, I meant the angel you’re named after is.” He curses to himself again. “Not to say that you’re not, uh, angelic or a bad guy or anything. I mean, well what you meant, right? Human, not inhuman?” And Sam realizes he’s started back into hunter territory.

Castiel laughs a curt laugh.

“Oh wait,” Sam realizes. “You didn’t mean...like, you’re not an angel like—” He wonders if Castiel just pulled a Dean on him.

In which case, it’s proof toward his running theory that he and Castiel are flirting as much as a geeky kid from a hunting family and a man of faith can flirt.

Castiel grins at him. “I don’t have two wings, if that’s what you’re asking.”

_But I’d like to check to be sure_. Sam blushes. Now _he’s_ just pulled a Dean, and Holy shit—capital “H” and all—that evidence alone seals the deal. They’re flirting. He likes Castiel, and Castiel, he thinks, likes him too. Even after that creepy “angel of Thursday” line and the incident at the cafeteria.

“I guess I’m not really asking anything.”

Castiel narrows his eyes at Sam. “Are you sure?”

Sam’s absolutely sure, without an ounce of reasonable doubt, that Castiel is hinting that he’d like to be asked out.

But he also feels like he can’t cave just yet.

It’s then that his friend Brady—Tyson Brady, nice guy gone wild—passes them. He stops and gives Sam an arrogant nod.

“Hey,” Sam says. “What’s up?”

But Brady doesn’t answer right away. His hands tremble slightly as his eyes focus on Castiel. “Nothing. On my way to class.”

“Making progress.”

Brady inhales a careful breath. Castiel watches him like a hawk. Sam hopes it’s jealousy—for as messed up as he knows that hope is—but it’s obvious that what’s between Brady and Castiel is suspicion, possibly pure hatred. It’s a bit scary.

Sam tries to diffuse the situation immediately. “That’s great, man. See you later?”

Brady nods quicker than Sam’s ever seen him nod before. “Yeah. See ya.”

And as soon as Brady’s gone, Castiel returns to normal— _Whatever that is_ , Sam thinks—and makes a study-date with Sam.

* * *

Sam meets up with Brady and some friends at a bar. Brady introduces him to this stunning woman, Jessica, and Sam feels a connection with her. They swap numbers, but Sam’s not entirely sure if he wants to call right away.

The only thing that’s on his mind is his “date” with Castiel tomorrow night. After all, Sam got his number first.

* * *

Castiel’s apartment is off-campus, though not far from it. The building itself is a bit dingy, but the neighborhood is decent, so Sam’s not worried.

It takes him a moment to find the place though. He finally finds the door on the top floor, at the end of a hallway. Sam finds this a bit unusual. The door’s not labeled for the sixth floor (the number starts with a seven), and the other floors, he swore, had identical floor plans, but had a window at the ends of their halls. He wonders if he’s mistaken Castiel’s door for a door heading out to a balcony. Still, he doesn’t spot an exit sign anywhere. Perhaps he just got turned around somewhere on the way up, because there’s no way in hell, even with his experience with the supernatural, that there’s just a door here that leads to some other dimension. There has be a real room on the other side.

So he knocks.

Castiel greets him with a “Hello, Sam,” and lets him inside without any sort of excitement. It’s as if the magic between them had completely dissipated, and Sam wonders if it’s because of Brady.

The apartment catches him off-guard. It’s got a studio-feel to it, because it’s set up more like the motel rooms he’d lived in all his life than an actual apartment. One section of wall is devoted to a small kitchen area, and the other wall houses a sofa, a coffee table, and a small TV atop a cheap wooden stand. Between the two is a dining table with three chairs; Sam wonders why three and not two or four. There’s even a tacky divider separating the sole, queen-sized bed from the rest of the place. _But I didn’t think these were studio apartments._

Castiel doesn’t say much about the place, nor about Brady. He pulls out a pack of beer, a brand that Sam instantly recognizes as Dean’s favorite, hands Sam a bottle, and then offers to call for pizza. He nods to a sleek, silver laptop on the coffee table, then tells Sam he can turn it on while he makes the call.

So Sam leans over and opens it up. The laptop looks new, _really_ new, like the reason Castiel didn’t blow cash on sprucing up his place was because he blew it on this computer. It’s thin and smooth, unlike the clunky one Sam just managed to afford. When he turns it on, he notes that the operating system seems updated too.

In fact, he’s so confused and amazed at the computer that when Castiel returns from his call, Sam realizes he doesn’t actually remember Castiel _talking_. He thinks he should, since it’s just a studio apartment, and he doesn’t think Castiel disappeared into the hall outside or the bathroom. He figures he would have heard a door shut or even the echo of Castiel’s gravelly voice off of the bathroom tile.

Sam’s attention is misdirected again when Castiel sits beside him, but this time Sam isn’t focused on something strange, out of place, or just plain forgotten; he’s remembering that he offered to help Castiel because he wanted to be _close_ to him, and this is the closest they’ve ever been. Their knees even brush together when Sam tries to adjust in his seat. Sam mutters a quick apology, and Castiel doesn’t react. Like he wanted it. Or he didn’t care. _Wouldn’t he laugh or something? Feel just as awkward as I do?_

“So, uh,” Sam says, “what’re you working on?”

Castiel gazes at Sam. “Philosophy.”

It’s a rather large topic. “Of, uh, what?”

“Moral dilemmas.”

_Not much narrower_. “Did your professor give you any other direction?”

“Like?”

Sam notices how genuinely confused Castiel is. _Is he failing? Not paying attention in class? Is that why he really needs my help?_ “Like, a starting point. You know, a list of possible problems you’d have to look into, or maybe you had to choose a philosopher and speculate how _they_ would solve the problem the professor posed.”

Castiel tilts his head in a familiar, almost puppy-like way. “I...have to create my own direction.”

Sam nods. _Better._ “Okay, so got any ideas?”

“When should a deity smite and when shouldn’t they?”

Sam’s shocked, but it fades when he considers the possibility that Castiel is losing his faith. He feels sorry for him. “That’s kind of a big one, right? You could probably reword it make it easier to deal with. Like, say, not saying what a deity should and shouldn’t do, but instead asking why we think that a deity should take care of the things we think they’re judging.”

Castiel leans his head in the opposite direction. “Why wouldn’t He?”

“I dunno, there’s gotta be some element of free will, right?”

“You sound like—” Castiel stops. The speed of his remark was too natural, too conversational, too casual. He continues. “—My professor.”

It sounded as if Castiel were about to say “Dean,” but Sam knows there’s no possible way that Castiel would know his brother. _Probably just reflecting my own impressions of Dean off him or whatever._ “How about we change it to this: is fear the best tool to rule with?”

“It works,” Castiel says.

“It may work, but is it the best? Is it the most moral?”

“And what would you suggest?” Castiel replies, an edge in his voice that hints at insult.

“Well,” Sam begins, trying to ease his...friend’s?...tension, “I dunno. If it were me? Maybe I’d try to be reasonable. You know, try to understand why someone did whatever bad—or sinful, I guess—thing they did, and see what I could do to prevent it. Like...my—” Sam stops just as Castiel had before, his lips about to let loose something about Dean and his father. “My friend’s cousin,” he corrects. “Well, he moved around a lot to take care of his kids, and the kids had to learn to hustle pool and get money somehow. It’s not exactly legal, but no one was getting hurt, and it was done so that they could afford food and a place to sleep. If they had those things, I guess affording them wouldn’t be an issue. So...”

Castiel’s eyes narrow just a bit; he obviously didn’t buy the lie entirely, but leaves it alone. “So fear of the law didn’t persuade them.”

“No, because—eer, I guess I don’t know why,” Sam lies again. “But I guess that’s a starting point.”

“Sam,” Castiel says, as if he’s about to lay a massive truth down on the table.

“Yeah?”

Castiel smiles. “You’re rather intelligent.”

Sam gapes a moment. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

Sam grins, partially from Castiel’s flattery, and partially out of spite for his father. “Yeah, well, at least someone thinks so.”

Castiel puts his hand over Sam’s. It’s rather endearing, considering the vehemence on his tongue during their smite talk only moments before. “They will come around.”

_Takes living with a dysfunctional family to know one._ “It’s that obvious, huh?”

Castiel’s hand doesn’t move. “I know what it’s like to try and get your family to understand you.”

Sam wants to turn his palm over and squeeze, but stops. His heart beats rapidly in his chest. He knows that this moment could lead to something more. _But he asked me for help with his paper._ Taking things too fast could void everything; he didn’t want to run the risk of Castiel believing Sam helped him just to snatch a kiss.

But this kinship between them feels strong, he thinks at least, and he wants to ignore the snafus and see where this all leads, especially with the allure of something so incredibly new and different surrounding the situation.

Sam tests the waters a bit more. “Did yours? Come around, I mean.”

Castiel sighs, his features saddened and shoulders not so confident. “They didn’t. I’d hoped, but...”

More than ever, Sam wants to hold his hand now, because it pains him to see his friend—yes, friend—so troubled. He doesn’t. “What happened?”

Castiel acts like he’s never been asked that question before. “My family was involved in something...terrible. I didn’t agree with it.”

Sam’s nerves are on edge. He wants to sip his beer, but he’s afraid that shifting his body might break their contact. “So you came here?”

“Not right away,” Castiel says. “I wasn’t...able to get around as freely as I am now.”

“What happened between then?”

“I went to my friends for help, but they proved to be unwilling. One, he—our bond was—” Castiel swallows, a wholly human gesture that Sam registers as the collapse of Castiel’s rigid mask.

“Seems you were like brothers.”

“I’d hoped for...”

_More?_ Sam wonders.

Castiel takes a deep breath. “The other stabbed me in the back, so to speak.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, hoping to console him.

Castiel’s eyes flicker up instantly at Sam. “You’re sorry?”

“Yeah, that’s not right, what happened to you.”

Castiel’s pupils dilate, as if he’d just received revelation. “Maybe it was justified...” he utters, turning away from Sam and facing forward. Their contact breaks.

Seconds pass without words. Sam reflects on the conversation. It feels wrong to leave Castiel alone beside him, but he knows that if he leans in, he’ll take advantage of the situation. The urge to comfort Castiel is overwhelming, and Sam knows that it’s partly because no one was there for him when he needed it either.

So Sam takes that sip from his beer, then says, “Okay, well you can start there if you want. Obligations and where they begin and end. You know, does family necessarily constitute an obligation.”

“Do you think it does?”

Sam shrugs. “I dunno, honestly. I go back and forth. It should be a two-way street without psychic expectations. Though I guess...”

Castiel gives him a quizzical look. “What?”

Sam sighs. “I dunno. I guess there’re unspoken obligations. Like when you love someone, you do things for them, sometimes really crazy things that you swore you would never do.” _Like hunting a monster your whole life and screwing up your kids in the process._

“Like disobeying Heaven.”

_Maybe he is losing his faith. Or struggling with it._ “It’s a good topic for you since you’re a theology guy.”

Castiel relaxes again, resting against the back of the sofa. “I suppose you’re correct.”

Sam picks up the laptop and lays it in his lap. “Okay,” he says, seeking out the word-processing program on the computer. “Let’s get this stuff down.”


	2. Hundreds of Thousands

**Hundreds of Thousands**

Class has just let out, and Sam’s making a beeline for the restrooms, because a pen had to go and explode in his hand just as the lecture wrapped. He could have avoided the incident if he hadn’t been tapping it so rapidly on his notebook during the lecture, but it was the only way he could keep focused on the topic instead of Castiel.

Inside the restroom, Sam notes the strong smell of cleaner and spots the “wet floor” warning sign propped up in the middle of the tiled room. He quickly moves to a sink to scrub the ink off.

He jumps a bit when Brady appears behind him, because even with the water running, Sam figures his senses are honed enough to detect a guy in a room with major echo potential, not to mention the little things like subtle changes in room tone just because there’s another body disrupting the air flow. Of course, Sam probably just missed it, either too focused on the ink covering his hand or—more likely—the wonderful night he’d had with Castiel two days ago. Sure, nothing _happened_ between them, but he felt they were getting closer, _and_ they’d made significant headway with Castiel’s paper.

Sam checks Brady’s face through the mirror, hoping to detect his friend’s mood. It’s clear that Brady’s not there to have a pleasant chat.

“Sam,” Brady says, his brows straight, eyes withholding a scowl. “We need to talk about your friend.”

“What friend?” Sam asks, though he knows Brady meant Castiel.

“That _new_ friend. He’s bad news.”

Sam looks over his shoulder just to let Brady know he’s listening. That’s when he catches sight of the restroom door, which had been propped open when he first entered and since closed. Instinctively, he pauses mid-wash and snatches a paper-towel, deciding to clean up back home. After all, Brady has been rather strange lately, benders and supposed self-rehab aside.

“Do you know him?” Sam questions.

“He doesn’t have your best interests at heart, _Sam_.”

Sam recalls the exchange between Castiel and Brady days ago. _Maybe Brady used to be friends with Castiel, back in South Dakota or wherever. Maybe he’s the one who backstabbed him?_ Sam doesn’t like his theory, but with what he knows, it seems to make sense.

But Dad, for all the horrible things that Sam remembers, always said that sometimes the solution isn’t as far out there as it seems. Sometimes it’s simpler. The less convoluted, the more probable. Maybe Brady and Castiel shared a class and didn’t get along, and that was it.

Brady’s posture is threatening, bordering on demonic. Sam knew Brady to be wild, but _evil_? It didn’t fit the bill. _There has to be a justifiable reason_ , Sam thinks.

“Wanna tell me how you know that?” Sam challenges.

“Because I _know_ ,” Brady states. “You should cut your losses now. Your life doesn’t need him.”

“Dude, I’m sorry we’re not hanging out more—”

“Oh, you think I’m _jealous_? Of _him_?” Brady laughs. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Well, what else can it be?”

Brady peers into him. “Oh, I see...” he says. “You’re homo for him! What would your _brother_ think? What about your dad?”

It’s disconcerting how much glee Brady is getting from their exchange. Sam’s fairly certain he doesn’t mention his family much either, so how did Brady know what buttons to press? “We’re just friends, man.”

“Mm hmm,” he says. “Well, I can see you won’t be swayed, so fine. Just tell your friend to watch his back.”

Sam shifts into a defensive stance. “Are you gonna hurt him?”

“What, are you saying you’ll come to his rescue? Your poor damsel in distress?”

_He has no idea that I can kick his ass._ “Let it go, Brady.”

“Him or me, bub.”

The ultimatum shocks Sam. “What?”

“Tch. You have no idea. It’s so _adorable_.” Brady smirks at Sam’s ignorance.

“What the hell is your problem?”

“I am just trying to protect _you_. That’s all.” Brady’s grin fades into a snarl before he turns heel to leave the restroom.

Sam’s pissed now. “Yeah, well you seemed pretty afraid of him the other day.”

Brady stops. “You were seeing things, Winchester.”

Sam says nothing as Brady exits the room.

* * *

Days pass. Sam doesn’t speak to Brady. He knows there’s something wrong with him, and he almost calls up Dean a few times to see if something else might be at play there. Still, he can’t find a reason for Castiel to be targeted, unless the guy knows more about the supernatural than he lets on, in which case, that could be the sort of messy business his family was into.

During those few days, Sam reconsiders his stance on staying away from a life of violence, poltergeists, and things that go bump in the night. Brady’s threat was too malevolent to ignore, so Sam prepares for the worst. He doesn’t have a gun, nor does he have any silver around, but he starts carrying a small flask of holy water and a zip-top bag of salt in his pockets. He stretches and spars with an imaginary partner before classes, just to sharpen his skills. He checks the weather patterns in the area, and while he doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary, he jots notes on the back pages of an old notebook he used during the previous semester.

He never calls his brother; he wants to do this on his own if he has to. Going to Dean for help is not an option he wants to pursue. After all, Dean wasn’t there to defend him when he needed him the most, and calling Dean would mean proving their father right.

Sam tries to maintain some distance from Castiel, getting close enough to preserve their budding friendship, sending him a few waves in between classes, but nothing more. Getting too involved might make him unable to detect any impending danger. He doesn’t ask about Brady, and he doesn’t warn about him either.

However, on Thursday, Castiel invites him over again, via text message. Friday night, his place. Pizza, beer, and more research.

Sam considers his plan to to stay away and throws it out the window. He wants to see Castiel, and the direct invitation is too enticing to pass up. Besides, he’ll go in armed.

* * *

The pizza, Castiel tells him, arrived only moments before Sam did. They eat quick and chat about Castiel’s project, but it’s all frivolous stuff, like how Sam had to hit the bookstore on the way over because yet another one of his cheap pens exploded.

Sam notices something about Castiel. The guy seems flat-out exhausted. The spaces beneath his eyes are dark, and his skin is paler than usual. Even his clothes are different. They’re clean, but not as neat as Sam thought they were before— _Were they?_ Castiel’s foregone the tie altogether—the jacket too—and his sleeves are rolled up messily to his elbows.

Sam waits until they’re on the couch again to mention it. “You’ve been working a lot on this, huh?”

Castiel glances at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Well, no offense, but you look like hell.”

“Drained,” Castiel adds.

“You sure you don’t just wanna take it easy and hang out? Or I can leave so you can get some sleep.”

Castiel gives him a tired smile. “I’m actually feeling better than I have in a long time, Sam.”

“All-nighters though, right? For the paper?” Sam asks, hoping Castiel isn’t lying to cover up a confrontation with Brady.

Castiel nods. “Would you believe me if I told you that our conversation the other night was...revealing?”

Sam grins. “Revealing? Yeah I guess I would.”

“There’s so much left that I have to do,” Castiel says.

“Before what?”

“Funny that you knew how that ended.”

Sam sidles over a mite to feel the warmth of Castiel’s body. “Hey, you remember what we first talked about? About going back in time to change things?”

“Of course.”

“I think I wanna change my answer.”

This surprises Castiel. “Why?”

“Well,” Sam says, “I guess it’s because sometimes I wonder if I’d be here now if things had been different. Like maybe I wouldn’t have had the drive to get away if there were nothing to get away from.”

“Or someone to get away to.”

“Is that what happened with you?”

Castiel says nothing.

Sam feels relief then. Castiel’s story is really simple—nothing paranormal, nothing more than a story of Romeo and Juliet that didn’t pan out the way he’d hoped. Brady’s just on drugs, which is making him lash out on feelings that he used to be able to censor. _He must have just been pissed I haven’t been hanging out with him lately._

“Would you change your answer?”

Castiel turns his head slowly to face at Sam. “No.”

Sam gives himself one last way to bail on the moment. “You still wanna work on your paper, Cas?”

Castiel smiles at his nickname. “I don’t.”

Sam leans over carefully, just in case Castiel recoils, but the man doesn’t. Their gazes shift from their eyes to their lips, and they kiss.

Sam feels a spark—a real jolt—as their lips meet, like the power and wisdom he fantasized that Cas had really exists. It’s like the magic found only in fiction, like he’s kissing a prince, a king, an angel, a god. Castiel doesn’t jump as one would from a static shock, so Sam assumes the feeling is one-sided, or that maybe his mind was so lost in reverie that it concocted the feeling.

The kiss deepens. Castiel tastes of citrus and sugar, as if he’s been feasting on ambrosia and wine, not pizza and beer. Sam chuckles a bit at the thought, and their kiss breaks momentarily, though their lips remain close and ready to connect again.

“Sorry for the shock,” Sam says, closing back in.

Their mouths touch briefly before Castiel remarks, “What shock?”

“Static shock.”

Castiel’s lips brush against Sam’s, eager to kiss again. “Maybe it was the souls.”

Sam smirks, returning Castiel’s gentle lip teases, enjoying the electrical sensations. “Could be,” he says. “Some cultures think our souls travel through our mouths.”

Castiel gives him a half-smile and kisses him again. When their lips part once more, they’re out of breath, their cheeks flush, their bodies tingling in anticipation of the next touch.

“Sam...” Castiel utters with his strangely familiar tone, like they’ve been friends forever. It triggers that reverse déjà vu again.

A call on Sam’s cell jolts him out of his transcendent moment. It’s not his ordinary ringtone either. Sam puts a few more inches between them and pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Who is it?” Castiel asks, like any name Sam would give him would matter.

“My brother,” Sam says.

Castiel’s eyes dilate quickly; Sam might not have noticed it if he weren’t looking into them so intently.

“Dean?” Sam answers, foregoing the usual “hi, hello, how are you, yeah I’m good” conversation openers. He doesn’t want to talk to his brother, because now Dean only calls when _Dad_ wants something; it’s rarely about anything Sam thinks is important.

“ _Sammy. I was thinkin’ that maybe—”_

But Sam cuts him off as politely as he can, and only in a polite manner because Castiel is clearly eavesdropping. He tries to coax Dean off the phone.

“I can’t right now, Dean.”

“ _Just hear me out?”_

Sam exhales. “I will, but not now, okay?”

“ _Fine, call ya later.”_ He hears Dean sigh; it’s a clear indicator that it might be another few weeks before they talk again.

“Later.” Sam hangs up and looks at the man beside him. Their moment is over. Castiel seems off-kilter, and the color their kiss brought to his cheeks has since blanched back to its exhausted shade.

“You okay?” Sam asks, putting his hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Castiel lies. “Lack of sleep.”

Sam thinks he committed some sort of faux-pas. “It’s not ’cause of...?”

“No,” Castiel says quickly. He looks as if he’s about to be sick. “Actually, you should probably go.” He stands without his sea legs and brings his hand to his mouth.

Sam wonders if he contracted something during their kiss. “You sure you don’t want me to stay?” he asks, standing to hold Castiel’s arm.

Castiel’s really trying to keep it together. “No, it’s—” He regains his composure for a moment. “I’m flattered you want to take care of me.”

_Okay, it’s kind of an embarrassing thing too. Maybe I should go before he’s too mortified to see me again._ “You sure?”

Castiel can only nod now.

Sam releases Castiel’s shoulder, then collects his jacket and heads for the door. “Feel better, Cas. I’ll check up on you.”

Castiel nods again. As Sam exits and closes the door behind him, he hears a low rumble. He curses, mentally preparing to walk home in a storm that never rolls in.


	3. Fifty Thousand

**Fifty Thousand**

The night passes. It’s morning, and Sam calls to check up on Castiel. He figures if the call fails, he’ll pop in for a surprise visit. He doesn’t need to. Castiel picks up, and Sam immediately barrages him with concerned questions. Castiel’s voice sounds rough and weary, but Sam’s glad he at least answered the phone.

“ _I’m okay, Sam. Thank you.”_

“I can skip class and bring you some soup.”

“ _Soup?”_

“Yeah. It’s good for you after a rough night like that, I guess.” Sam wonders if that’s actually true, or if it was just something Dean said to force him to eat whenever he was sick as a kid. “I dunno. Just anything you need, I’ll bring over.”

“ _I’m okay, Sam.”_

Sam’s worried Castiel is just using this as an excuse to brush him off. He doesn’t want to sound needy, but he really likes Castiel and he can’t stop thinking about their kiss. “Can I see you?”

“ _Tomorrow.”_

Sam smiles. “Promise?”

“ _Yes.”_

* * *

Sam still hasn’t seen or spoken to Brady since their altercation in the campus restroom. He’s thankful for that. He’d tried to convince himself that the drugs made Brady act the way he did, but that didn’t explain the fear or the threat, unless Castiel is or was a drug dealer, and Sam’s pretty certain Castiel doesn’t fit the profile.

Sam listens to his instincts and protects his apartment before Castiel gets there. He’s not sure how to hide the salt barriers; if he puts them under a rug, he thinks the rug will act like a bridge _over_ them. He resigns himself to carefully lining the top of each door and window frame with salt. He also washes his doorknobs with holy water, thinking that maybe a holy bath might do something to the metal.

He cleans his place a little too; piles of laundry and dishes have been sprouting up in his little one-bedroom apartment over the last few days. If he hadn’t been dealing with the stress from Brady’s threats, the excitement of his new relationship with Castiel, and his own coursework, he might have had less to clean today.

It takes him a while, but he finishes just before Castiel is supposed to arrive. Sam looks the place over, proud of his accomplishment. His pride fades when he realizes just how dull of a place it is. The walls are a boring beige, the floors have a fresh but equally beige carpet, and the trim is the same eggshell white of the stucco ceiling. The furniture is mainly dark brown and black. It’s obvious that most of the pieces were free or deeply discounted when he acquired them.

The place has less personality than the motel rooms he grew up in.

He hopes Castiel doesn’t hate it.

Two brief knocks at the door gain his attention. Sam opens it up carefully, just in case its Brady who might be possessed by a spirit or worse, but it’s not. Castiel stands there, his eyes brighter than they’ve been in a while, his skin a healthy shade of peach, wearing a suit and loosened tie beneath his overcoat.

“Hello, Sam,” he says.

Sam smiles and gestures inside. Castiel takes a few steps in, quickly scans the place, then turns back to him with a relieved expression. Sam closes the door, and they embrace as if it’s been forever since they last saw each other.

“You look better,” Sam says in Castiel’s ear.

“You have no idea,” Castiel remarks, brushing his cheek against Sam’s smooth face. They kiss, comfortable and hungry to connect to each other. While it lacks the physical spark that Sam felt the other night, the euphoria is the same.

Part of Sam wants to do this all night, wants to make out with Castiel and kiss him all over, to let Castiel know that he is cared for and protected, and to feel like Castiel could do the same for him. Reason encourages him to slow it down, to part with Castiel before things get so heated that they crash and burn into Earth headfirst and end up with no relationship at all.

So Sam does, simply by suggesting that they take a seat. They watch TV, talk a bit about school (mostly Sam does), and Castiel listens. There are moments when they sit apart and moments when Castiel’s head is on Sam’s shoulder. To Sam’s surprise, he hasn’t accidentally insulted Castiel once.

He discovers that Castiel likes burgers and coffee and beer, and that’s when Sam tells him about the first time he got drunk with Dean. Cas shares his tale too, which seems wildly exaggerated since it started off with him talking about “doing shots with a mother-daughter team during the Apocalypse,” and trailed into the time he “went on a bender.”

“Okay, I’ve never been so drunk that I felt like I downed a liquor store,” Sam remarks.

“I was in a different place then,” Castiel explains.

Toward the end of the night, after sandwiches (because Sam didn’t think take-out would be appropriate for a guy who was sick to his stomach the night prior), they’re watching some movie on one of the basic networks. Sam has his arm slung around Castiel’s shoulder as he attempts to explain baseball to him, because one of the characters in the movie recently mentioned it, and Cas didn’t understand the reference.

Then out of the blue, Castiel says, “I didn’t think things would go like this.”

Sam looks at him, catching a heavenly scent from the gel in Castiel’s hair as his head turns. “With us? Or the movie?”

“Us,” Castiel clarifies.

“Me neither, but I’m glad it did.”

Castiel relaxes even more into Sam and remarks, “Me too.”

They stay that way for a while, watching the silly movie and occasionally talking about it when Castiel has a question or makes an unusual observation. Sam can see now more than ever just how sheltered Castiel must have been before coming to Stanford. The movie ends at 1 AM; Sam panics a bit since tomorrow is the day he has an early class.

“It’s really late” he says, standing to stretch.

Castiel doesn’t seem tired. “Hardly noticed.”

“Do you have class tomorrow?”

Castiel pauses, then stands as well. “Yes.”

Sam doesn’t want to ask the next question, but his intention is to be polite. Also, the bar Brady frequents is between here and Castiel’s place. He hates the assumption, but he pegs Castiel as someone who can’t handle himself in a fight. “Did you want to stay?”

Castiel freezes. “Stay?”

Sam fumbles to clarify. “Uh, because it’s late. You know, so you don’t have to drive or...wait, did you drive here?” He has no idea if Cas even owns a car.

“No.”

“I can get you a blanket and a pillow if you want to crash on the couch.” If Castiel agrees, Sam will be stripping these items from his own bed.

Castiel loosens a bit. “The couch.” He tenses back up as his eyes drift to meet Sam’s. “I suppose.”

_Does he want to...?_ Sam swallows. His plan to take things slow suddenly seems like a very bad plan. After going back and forth between Castiel’s fearful, yet wanting eyes, Sam states, “I’ll go get them.”

Sam enters his bedroom, grabs one of the two pillows there, then snags the comforter, reserving nothing but the sheets for himself. He brings the plush items out in a messy mass and sets it on the couch, then unfurls the giant ball of blanket to reveal the pillow that had gotten lost in the folds. Now the pillow lies at one end of the couch, while the blanket, a bit neater, lies across the rest of it.

“All set,” Sam says.

Castiel looks up at him. “Thank you.”

Sam smiles and leans in to kiss him. “Night Cas.”

“Good night, Sam.”

* * *

The next morning, Sam finds Castiel sitting on the couch, coat on, the pillow as it was the night before and the blanket seemingly untouched.

“Sorry,” Sam yawns. “Were you waiting for me?”

“Yes.”

Sam tries to muffle another yawn. “Sorry. I’ll be ready in a sec.”

Castiel nods and waits a few moments longer.

* * *

A week passes without incident. No Brady—in fact, no one’s heard from him lately—and nothing else weird. Sam sees Castiel now and then, but he hasn’t been to Castiel’s apartment in a while, and Cas hasn’t brought up his project either. They share kisses and hold hands when no one is looking, and when Sam asks Castiel to come over for dinner, he stays a bit longer than planned. Much longer, because Castiel sleeps on Sam’s couch almost every day. It’s something akin to a real relationship, but they haven’t set any official status yet.

Today they walked home together without verbally establishing a plan to do so. As Sam asks Castiel what he wants on his pizza, he realizes they’ve fallen into a pattern.

“What are you smiling at?” Castiel asks him.

Sam’s thumb hovers over the “send” button on his phone, ready to place their order. “Nothing. It’s just...” He lets out a quiet laugh. “I’m kind of like your boyfriend, right?”

Castiel nods, unsure of what to say.

“Is that...fine with you? I mean, we can make it official. Or not.”

“Is that what you want?”

A content, calm expression besets Sam’s face. “Yeah, actually.”

Castiel tries to mask his enthusiasm. “That would be good.”

“Very good.”

Castiel nods repeatedly, his head moving slowly, his mind in disbelief, like he’s never been someone’s boyfriend in his life. “Yes, very good.”

Sam chuckles. “Are you okay?”

Castiel breathes in heavily through his nose. “Yes, I’m _very_ okay, Sam.”

Sam sets down his phone and grips Castiel at the waist. “Can I tell you something?”

“You’ve always been able to tell me anything, Sam.”

Sam’s eyebrows dip in confusion for a split second. _“Always.”_ Castiel’s unusual use of temporal terms constantly perplexes him. “Okay. Well, you’re kinda my first, uh, boyfriend.”

Their noses touch. “You’re mine as well,” Castiel says.

Sam tilts his head a bit. “I thought you—ah, what about that friend of yours?”

“It was not returned,” Castiel states flatly. “I thought maybe—never mind. It doesn’t matter now.”

“So you want to be out?”

“Out?”

“You know...two guys. Up to you. I mean, I’m kinda...well I guess it doesn’t matter. People can be jerks.”

“I’ve watched California. There are worse places.”

_Watched?_ Sam laughs. “Up to you.”

“We don’t have to right away.”

Sam nods in agreement, then gently nuzzles him. “Can I kiss you now?”

“Yes.”


	4. Closer to Zero

**Closer to Zero**

More days pass without Brady. Sam sees Castiel often, because he doesn’t ever seem to go home except to change clothes.

Sam wonders where Castiel goes in the morning, because they’ve been walking to class together when they can, but he doesn’t see Cas near that bench or in the halls anymore. Cas just appears, it seems, whenever Sam’s last class lets out, and then they walk to Sam’s place or to the bar for a drink or somewhere else.

Sam has a growing concern that Cas has given up on his studies.

When Sam sees him after class on Friday, he realizes that he’s only seen Castiel with a book once. Aside from the laptop in Castiel’s apartment, he’s never seen Cas carry or use anything that a student would. No textbooks, no notes, no bag.

Castiel just smiles at him when they meet up, completely unaware of his errant, non-academic behavior. He’s still wearing his usual choice of clothes, though the colors have slightly changed; today’s choice of suit is a more navy shade of black than yesterday’s. “Hello, Sam.”

“Hey,” Sam replies, making a conscious effort not display his affection in public. “You wanna go home, or get something to eat?”

Castiel saddens, his smile all but gone. A fond memory of something lost flashes in his eyes. “Home,” he says softly.

Concern tugs at Sam’s brow. “Everything okay?”

Castiel looks up at the sky. “You meant your apartment.”

Sam laughs, embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess I did.” Strands of hair fall in his eyes. “Sorry.” He starts walking. Castiel follows.

“I have to tell you something, Sam.”

_Here it is,_ Sam thinks. _This is where he tells me he’s dropping out._ “Go for it.”

“Walking is too slow.”

Sam bursts into laughter; he didn’t anticipate _that_ response. “So you wanna run?”

Castiel thinks it’s a crazy suggestion.

“I could carry you,” Sam offers, his inflection flirtatious.

“That’s not necessary.”

“So this important thing you have to tell me is that walking is too slow of a pace, but running isn’t on the table.”

Castiel stares at a tree as they pass it. “What I meant to say was that I’ve always thought of home as a place shared with you.”

_Crap. This is one of those things that goes way faster than it should._ Sam always thought that his friends were stupid and reckless anytime they were in these kinds of fuzzy, ultra-doe-eye-inducing relationships, but now he completely understands just how intoxicating it can be to rush through the steps of courtship.

Something else occurs to him too.

“Wait,” Sam says. He’d been keeping these observations of Castiel’s speech silent, but today he forgets to censor himself. “‘Always’?”

Castiel’s gaze shoots forward. “Slip of the tongue. Since we’ve met.”

The heat beneath Sam’s collar rises. If he and Castiel fake-live together, then he and Castiel should share a bed. And damn it if he ever thought anyone would ever say what Cas just said to him. “You wanna stay over tonight?”

“Yes,” Castiel says quickly.

They exchange quick, knowing looks. Sam’s pretty sure they’re walking much closer together now too.

“Okay,” Sam says. “I just have to stop somewhere on the way home.”

* * *

Sam and Castiel kiss the moment they’re inside Sam’s place. It’s made no less awkward by the bag of lubrication and condoms in Sam’s hand. They take a few hasty steps as one entity until Sam finally pulls away and says, “Come with me.”

Castiel nods and takes Sam’s hand, following him into the bedroom with the full-size bed that has one pillow and one set of sheets wrinkled upon it. Sam sets the bag on a nightstand, then returns to Castiel, peppering his face and neck with kisses while they kick off their shoes and coats.

There’s unfinished whispers about how this is a new experience, cut off by more passionate kissing and the undoing of a tie and buttons. They lie on the bed, shirtless, Castiel’s weight pressing against Sam’s chest, their skin touching and the hard flesh beneath their pants aware of each other.

Collectively, they find a moment to breath, to take in each other’s lithe, tone forms before going in to kiss again.

It’s at this moment that Sam thinks he loves Castiel. He’d do anything for him, and has, considering the salt barriers that are still in place around the apartment. An unspoken obligation.

“You’re smiling,” Castiel notices.

“Do I need a reason?”

“I suppose you don’t.”

“You’re strange,” he says, stealing a gentle kiss, “in a good way.”

“I’m glad you didn’t say ‘nerd,’” Castiel replies between connections.

“Mmm, no. You don’t make enough Star Trek references for that,” Sam jokes.

“What’s Star Trek?”

Sam’s eyes open in surprise. He’s not sure how sentimental and warm he wants to get, but he really wants to tell Cas just how damn _cute_ that was. “Just a show my brother loves.”

A succinct laugh escapes Castiel. He seems to really appreciate the joke. “You remind me of Uriel.”

“Uriel?” Sam assumes it’s a relative. “Your family has a thing for angel names?”

Castiel glances away for a second. “Yes, he w—is my brother.”

Sam shifts to remind Castiel of their contact. Pleasure surges through his body. “The things you learn about someone when they’re lying half-naked on top of you.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow deviously. “We should fix that.”

“The secret telling or the half-naked part?”

Castiel smirks at him. Sam smirks back.

“The half-naked part,” Castiel says, nose pressing into Sam’s chest.

Sam watches as Castiel plants careful kisses down his torso. Sam nods lightly when Cas looks up, eyes seeking approval, as if wanting to know if he’s doing okay or not. If Castiel keeps going lower, things are going to be _much_ better than okay. Sam puts his hand on Castiel’s shoulder and massages it, his other hand gripping the sheets beneath him. When Castiel reaches his navel, there’s another spark of electricity. Sam flinches.

“What is it?” Castiel asks.

“Just static again,” Sam mumbles out quickly, eager to have Castiel’s lips return to his skin. When they do, there’s another shock, and this time Castiel feels it.

_This is why wearing clothes right now is a bad thing,_ Sam thinks, but he immediately feels ashamed of the thought when Castiel lifts himself upright.

“Sam,” he says, a sense of urgency in his tone. He wobbles, unable to properly steady his knees on the mattress. “Get out of here.”

Sam sits up to console him. The tone of the moment completely changes. “Cas! Are you gonna be sick again?”

Castiel pushes him aside and gets off the bed, feet stepping on his own clothes. He keeps his back turned to the bed, and inspects his hands as if waiting for fur to sprout from his knuckles.

_Oh god, he’s a werewolf._ Sam panics and hops off the bed, unsure of what to do. Castiel gags, then stops. Sam puts a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, which Cas immediately pushes away.

“Let me help you!” Sam demands. He remembers his notes; there’s not another full moon for a whole week and a half. _So what is it? Is he just prone to sickness?_

“Get out of the room, Sam!” Castiel shouts.

An unearthly, low rumbling fills Sam’s ears. The scent of a wildfire in the forest overwhelms the room. Seconds later, a high-pitched squeal overlays the deep rumbling, and another dry, unproductive gag comes from Castiel.

_Crap, maybe it’s an earthquake? Maybe he’s just sensitive to_ — He cuts himself off. The room brightens significantly. Concerned, Sam grabs Castiel’s shoulder again and forces him to turn around.

Bright, white light shoots from Castiel’s eyes and mouth, the beams’ brilliance competing in strength with military-grade spotlights. Sam squints, unable to cope with the dazzling radiance.

Castiel gags again; a cluster of white-hot, morbidly beautiful fireflies bursts from his throat. “Close your eyes, Sam!”

Sam does more than than, ducking and shielding himself from the light as it seems to explode around him like a nuclear bomb. Castiel’s heaves sound painful, but quiet compared to the rumbling and the glass-piercing tone pervading the air.

Then it ends abruptly—the light, the sound, Castiel’s pain. Sam cautiously opens his eyes when he hears Castiel collapse to the floor.

“Cas!” Sam exclaims, picking the man up and checking his neck for signs of life. He exhales with relief when he feels a quickened pulse beneath his fingertips.

Castiel’s conscious, more than Sam expected him to be after exploding in such a cosmological way. His eyes are a dull blue, sunken and exasperated beyond anything Sam’s seen in a long time from anyone, but his breath is steadily catching up to him.

Sam lifts Castiel in his lap, supporting him with both arms. He leans over and presses his lips to Castiel’s forehead, where they remain while he speaks. “Cas, what the hell are you?”

“Fixed,” Castiel replies softly.

Sam holds back his fear-borne tears as his embrace turns into a desperate clutch. “You know what I mean.”

“You already know the answer.”

“Castiel...” Sam was going to say “please,” but he remembers what he’d stumbled upon while researching the origins of the man’s name. His body trembles; he’s not sure whether to keep holding Cas the way he is or if he should bow down and pray to be forgiven for disrespecting one of Heaven’s own.

There’s another realization: Brady is possessed by a demon. He has to be. What else would be the mortal enemy of an angel? Even more terrifying, what does the demon want with Sam? It must want something if Castiel’s presence unnerved it. Was Castiel sent to stop Brady?

Sam never thought he’d be thrust into something so grand. “Why me?”

Castiel notices Sam’s shaking and sits up, his stamina nearly replenished. He clasps Sam’s hands between his own and says, “I’d not intended it to be like this, Sam. I’d meant to stop you.”

“Stop me?” Sam looks at him with a pained expression. “Stop me from what?”

Castiel doesn’t answer directly. “I know now that what you did wasn’t out of arrogance, or insubordination.”

Sam swallows. _Insubordination?_

“It was justified. I came here merely to teach you a lesson about disobedience.”

Sam’s nostrils flare with every breath. He frees his suppressed instincts, tearing his romantic fantasies to shreds, knowing that their relationship was definitely too good to be true. His mind cycles through every conversation he’s had with Castiel, hoping to find anything in the angel’s strange words that could explain the recent statement.

He finds it. One line about Castiel’s past and the friends who betrayed him. There is no link to Brady. Castiel is not there to protect Sam at all; his plan is much more insidious. It’d have to be, because Sam knows he wouldn’t hunt anything or anyone without a good reason.

“I tried to kill you,” Sam states.

Castiel answers him with an apologetic gaze. “This was a mistake, Sam. A happy mistake. You’ve saved...” He looks beyond the stucco above. “I am truly sorry.”

Sam’s eyes continue to well with tears. He does his best to ensure they don’t trickle down his cheeks. “You...so you’re telling me that one day I’m going to try to kill someone that I—that I’m going to try to kill you.”

Castiel stares straight into him. It’s an answer. “If you don’t, I won’t come here, and I won’t decide to purge the souls.”

_So that’s what I saw? Souls?_ Sam’s voice heightens in pitch. “What does that even mean?”

But Castiel doesn’t exactly answer that either. “It’s funny, as Dean would say, because I hadn’t intended to purge all of them. Hubris. Without the power of millions upon millions, I couldn’t control what remained.”

_He knew me—he knew us. This whole time._ “I don’t understand,” Sam utters.

“You will. When the wall breaks, you will remember and you _will_ understand.”

Sam tenses. “Wait, what?” He scrambles to his feet, then backs up. He doesn’t get far; his calves hit the bed.

Castiel rises and meets him face to face. “Everything must happen as it should,” he says, raising two fingers to Sam’s forehead. “And now that you know, we cannot continue. I’ve already stayed longer than I should.”

“Cas,” Sam pleads, his back arching over the bed in an attempt to escape the angel. He doesn’t want to forget Castiel, only to remember in the future that Castiel hadn’t intended to fall in love with him in the first place. Sam can’t even imagine why on earth he’d ever want to kill an angel.

“I am truly sorry, Sam. My feelings for you are genuine.”

Sam doesn’t have a chance to respond before Castiel’s lays his hands upon him.

**Zero**


End file.
